Could go a lot of ways. That's enough yapping, drink the blood, now, Molloy. Daniel stares at him. Maybe if he had the energy he'd push himself up and really cause an issue. But he feels like he's been flattened by a big roller truck, a big roller truck with big pretty eyes, and it's all he can do to touch Armand's arm (and his knee) and let the heady smell of his blood reach deep into him and get him somewhere animalistic.

Armand already knows that his fledgling, this mouthy old man he should have killed decades ago and been done with, is bad at reeling himself in. He doesn't need to warn him again. So he doesn't.

Daniel uses his hand on Armand's arm to shift him closer. Doesn't pull the little wound right to his mouth— off-kilter, but on purpose. He laps up the trail of blood that's wept and slid down his wrist, escaping towards his elbow. His tongue pushes up, then, finally, to where Armand has cut himself. Daniel gets there in perfect tandem with the way instinct fogs over his brain, and by the time he's hit that small wound, he's no longer thinking clearly, and he doesn't hesitate at all to open it back up with his own fangs. Fuck knows when they dropped. And then it's just blood, in his mouth, clutched there, his hand on the back of Armand's, the other clenching hard at his knee.